Page 55 of The River Is Waiting

“Yeah, everyone says the kid’s a loose cannon.”

“You know who might have more luck dealing with him? Praise.”

“Praise? Who’s that?”

“Cornell Wiggins. Lester’s son. Janitorial.”

The lieutenant looks away, rubs his chin, then looks back. “Yeah, I’m notaskingyou to do this, Corby. If you want the crew job, you partner up with the kid.”

“Guess I misunderstood then. I thought you were asking me my opinion.”

He shakes his head. “I’m an officer and you’re an offender, not my consultant.”

What the fuck? First he consults with me about whether he should put the kid in with Daugherty. Then I’mnothis consultant?

“I don’t expect you to be his shrink or anything. I just need someone I can trust who’ll supervise his work and watch out for him. Make sure he doesn’t get bullied. So what do you say? You taking the crew job?”

Cavagnero and I have had a good relationship up to now. He’s just called me by my first name, something no other CO has done. He said I was someone who could be trusted. And despite the strings he’s attached, he’s offering me a job.

“All right, I’ll do it. But he’s not going to like it.”

“No? It might surprise you that, when I told him I was putting him on the crew, and that I might match you two up as work buddies, he asked me if you were the one who looked like Jase Robertson. And I said, ‘Son of a gun. You’re right. He does.’ So he said, yeah, all right, if hehadto be on the crew, which he didn’twantto be, then okay, you could be his buddy.”

“Come on, Lieutenant,” I said. “I’m sure he doesn’t know who I am.”

“Yes, he does. Says he read it on your ID one night when you guys were waiting at the visiting room door.”

I shrug. “So who’s Jase Robertson?”

“Guess you’re not aDuck Dynastyfan, huh? He’s one of the commander’s sons. Reddish-brown hair, bushy beard, needs a haircut. He’s a good-looking cuss under all that brush.”

“Well, I guess that’s better than looking like the Unabomber,” I said.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just thinking out loud. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Piccardy’s pulled a double shift tonight. Whatever his beef is, just stay out of his way. I don’t know him that well, but he doesn’t strike me as the forgive-and-forget type. Someone you do not want to cross.”

That evening, about an hour before lights-out, I hear a key in the lock. Manny and I are both stretched out on our bunks, reading. The cell door opens and, fuck, it’s Piccardy and Anselmo. “Room inspection,” Anselmo announces.

“During third shift on a Monday? That never happens,” Manny says.

“Does now,” Anselmo tells him.

After Piccardy orders me to unlock my storage box, he and his wingman start rummaging through my property, supposedly hunting for contraband. Piccardy grabs one of my grape Gatorades, twists the cap off, and helps himself to a couple of swigs. They toss everything onto the floor, but there’s nothing they can nail me on. So far, they’re leaving Manny’s stuff alone, which is good for him. He’s got lots of shit they could write him up for, but I’m pretty sure this performance is for my benefit.

Anselmo grabs my books, fans the pages, and tosses them onto the pile on the floor. Piccardy starts leafing through the drawings in my sketchbook, including the ones I’ve been working on for Maisie. He watches for my reaction as he rips them out, throws them on the floor, and “accidentally” spills Gatorade on them. But I hold it in, keep my face expressionless. I’ll be goddamned if I’ll give him what he wants.

“Hey, those are for his kid,” Manny protests.

“Yeah? Which one? The dead one or the one hedidn’tkill?” Piccardy says.

The remark makes me jump off my bunk, ready to fight. From the bunk above, Manny says, “Let it go, Corby.”

“Stay the fuck out of it, Twinkle Toes,” Anselmo warns him. “Unless you want us to rip intoyourshit.”

Piccardy crouches and looks under my bunk. “Well, looky looky what we’ve got here, Officer Anselmo,” he says. He pulls out the two thirteen-gallon garbage bags I’ve been using as part of my workout when we’re in lockdown. As barbell replacements, they’re kind of wobbly and take getting used to, but they do the trick as far as giving you a decent pump. Half the guys on the tier use water bags for exercise. Technically, they’re contraband, but most of the COs let it go as long as they’re kept out of sight. “Pick up that one,” Piccardy orders me, nudging the bag on the left with the toe of his boot. When I do, he unfastens the set of keys from his belt and slashes the bag. Water gushes out onto my feet and spreads across the floor. “Now pick up the other one,” he says. I don’t.

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